PoemsPerDay

7.22

moving furniture until it’s 

clear it doesn’t fit. damn. 

thought we were done and

now the pieces waddle and

widdle, fiddle and faddle.

we go out to drown our sorrows 

at the Dairy Queen, and the 

queen of our house eases back

on the anxiety throttle, 

tears and bluster, lack and

luster. finding space in sacred

space, living space, homey

space, dayspring of our human

race.

like souls do houses ever really

get done, or till death us do part

and that’s only when it all burns

or molders into dust.

a work in ever progress. I swear

wherever the mover put it must

have been divinely ordained. but

she questers to a higher power.

damn.

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